


Through the Haze of the Whisky Lights

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Play Along [7]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, M/M, band au, musician au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7171238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate: Atlantis, John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, Drinking game."</p><p>Rodney institutes a drinking game to inspire the rest of the band to write songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Haze of the Whisky Lights

“Tell me why we’re doing this again?” John asked. He stared at the shot glass in front of him.  
  
“Because we need to be inspired, and alcohol is a great way to loosen up, free our minds,” Rodney said.  
  
“Why do _we_ need to be inspired, though? You’re our songwriter.” John wasn’t being deliberately obtuse, but the look Rodney cast him told him he had been all the same.  
  
“Look, which song was a hit with The Snakeskinners’ lead guitarist? Ronon’s. Contrary to popular opinion, my ego does not in fact cloud my judgment, and if we want to reach a bigger audience, we need a more diverse sound, so the rest of you need to write songs too.” Rodney unscrewed the cap on the bottle of whiskey and began pouring shots.  
  
“Easier said than done, as you’ve so often pointed out,” John said. “Not every musician is a songwriter.”  
  
“What’s this drinking game we’re playing?” Ronon asked.  
  
“Yes, tell us the rules,” Teyla said, and John felt betrayed. He cast Jennifer a look, but she shrugged helplessly, then smiled fondly at Rodney.  
  
John had done a lot of stupid things in the name of his ridiculous crush on Rodney, but he felt like this was going beyond the pale. He accepted the shot Rodney poured for him, though.  
  
“It is a variant of spin the bottle,” Rodney said.  
  
John made a face. “What is this, middle school?”  
  
“We’re not actually kissing each other,” Rodney said, “which is a moot issue anyway, since we all kissed each other at Kaleb Miller’s house party that one time sophomore year in his puerile game of Spin the Bottle.”  
  
John searched his memory frantically. “I don’t remember kissing you.” He remembered drinking too much at Kaleb Miller’s house party because it had been two days after he’d heard the news about his mother and he’d been under strict orders not to tell anyone till his father’s staff had a press brief written.  
  
Rodney rolled his eyes. “I’m sure it was as repulsive for you as it was for me and you blocked the memory out.”  
  
John flinched.  
  
Teyla winced and cast him a sympathetic look.  
  
Ronon shook his head. He’d been after John to tell Rodney about his feelings for weeks now, ever since The Snakeskinners concert. That was out of the question.  
  
“You’ve told us what the game isn’t, but not what it is,” Jennifer said, and as much as John was fiercely jealous of her, he was grateful for her kindness, even if she was unaware of when she was being especially kind to him.  
  
“Musical quiz!” Rodney said. “I have a pre-selected playlist of songs. Anyone who cannot identify a veritable music legend within the first ten seconds must take a shot. The game’s purpose is two-fold. One: remind us of great music. Two: free our minds.” He waggled his cell phone. “Let’s go!”  
  
“But you’re not going to get drunk at all, because you know all the songs.”  
  
“On the contrary,” Rodney said, “if all of you can identify the song, then I will take a drink.”

“Where does the bottle spinning come in?” Teyla asked.

“You spin the bottle, whoever it lands on guesses the song.”

“Fair enough,” Ronon said.  
  
John’s phone buzzed. He scooped it out of his pocket it to silence it completely and set it aside, but then he saw the text message was from Dave.  
  
_Come home now._  
  
Beneath the text message was a picture. A partially unfolded letter. There was some kind of official logo in the top corner. John unlocked his phone and tapped on the picture, zoomed in on it. He recognized the logo, scanned the letter.  
  
His throat closed.  
  
He stood up. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”  
  
“Let me guess,” Rodney said. “Family emergency?”  
  
Jennifer reached out to him. “Are you all right?”  
  
John swallowed hard. “Yeah. Well, no, but -”  
  
“You’ve looked really tired lately,” Jennifer said, and damn her perceptive pre-med eyes.  
  
“We all are, I’m sure. I’m sorry. I’ll try and write a song, I promise.” John scooped up his keys and wallet and ran for his car.

When he got home, Dave was sitting on his doorstep, letter in hand.  
  
“Were you ever going to tell me?”  
  
“What the hell were you doing, going through my mail?” John demanded. Technically it was Dave’s apartment; he was on the lease and John was contributing to the rent now that they were both in college. But it was John’s mail.  
  
“I figured it was the hospital asking you to attend the annual memorial fundraiser for the wing they named after Mom,” Dave said.  
  
“What annual memorial fundraiser?” John frowned.  
  
“The one you never go to because I hide the invitation.”  
  
John wanted to be angry at that too, because he wasn’t a damn child, but he didn’t think he’d be able to handle a night of wearing a tux and glad-handing rich old men who told him how wonderful his mother was even if most of them had never even met her.  
  
“So?” Dave waved the letter at him. “Were you going to tell me?”  
  
John sank down on the step beside him. “Depended on the test results. If I’d been worrying about nothing, no.”  
  
“This isn’t nothing. What are you going to do?”  
  
“Get treatment, obviously.”  
  
Dave made a dismissive gesture; that was a given. “I mean about - everything else.”  
  
“School, work, the band?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Carry on like normal,” John said. “No one else needs to know.”  
  
Dave’s eyes went wide. “John! Are you insane?”  
  
“Treatment now is better than when we were kids, when Mom -”  
  
“Dammit, John!” Dave shoved the letter at him and stood up. “Why don’t you tell people anything?”  
  
“It’s no one’s business,” John snapped. He folded the letter and shoved it into his pocket.  
  
“If we care about you, it is our business,” Dave said.  
  
John thought of the one kiss he’d had with Rodney that he didn’t remember, of the quiet implacability of his father’s voice when he told John that his days as a musician were over, of his first day in the Sheppard Industries mail room, of the look on his father’s face when the doctor told John he’d never be a runner again, that the Air Force was out of the question.  
  
“I’ll get treatment.” John fought to keep his tone calm. “I will take care of myself. But no one else needs to know, because it doesn’t matter. The doctors caught it early enough, and I will be fine. I can still live my life.”  
  
“Lying to everyone else?” Dave asked.  
  
“Not myself,” John said. “And not you, if you’re willing to listen.”  
  
Dave closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Fine. Tell me when - if you need anything.” He turned and opened the door.  
  
John caught his wrist. “David.”  
  
He paused.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Dave shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet.” And he went inside.  
  
John turned around, got back in his car, and drove back to Ronon’s garage. The others were well into their cups and listening to Rush’s Working Man.  
  
“Everything all right with your family?” Rodney’s sneer was cruel, but damn he was beautiful.  
  
“Now it is.” John resumed his place in the circle and held out his shot glass. “Deal me in, bartender.”  
  
Jennifer giggled. “You’re mixing your metaphors, John.”  
  
He deliberately botched knowing the next few songs, and the others must have been incredibly drunk, to think he’d miss any Johnny Cash, but then he was feeling warm and a little numb, and Rodney declared the game over, distributed little notebooks for them to write in. John joined in the madness, the bad rhymes and wildly extended metaphors and strange song titles.  
  
The others passed out midway through composing a piece about a unicorn.  
  
Once they were all asleep, John scooped up his guitar, and he wrote and he played and he wrote. By the time the sun rose, he was sober enough to drive, if exhausted, so he covered the others with their own jackets, closed the garage, went out to his car, and headed home.  
  
If he glanced over his shoulder one time too many at Rodney and Jennifer curled together on the floor, no one knew but him.


End file.
